


Another Gate

by mydogwatson



Series: One Fixed Point: 2020 Advent Stories [17]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A bit of Magic, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 21:46:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29782536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: John still has one Christmas gift to find. It is the most important.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: One Fixed Point: 2020 Advent Stories [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2035588
Comments: 38
Kudos: 96





	Another Gate

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, there! I know it says that this is #17 in the Advent series, but because I have been combining prompts, we are actually up to 20/21 December, so the end is in sight. I hope you are still hanging in with this little series! Let me know what you think.  
> Two prompts here: Gifts/Ghost of Christmas Past.

I believe the future is only the  
past again, entered through  
another gate.

-Pinero, A.W.

Sherlock was in a mood.

The details of why he was banging around in the kitchen instead of eating the perfectly acceptable breakfast that had been set in front of him were unknown. Something to do with an experiment gone wrong. The good news was that the jar of foreskins [don’t ask was the household mantra] was gone from the refrigerator. The bad news was that Sherlock was muttering about having to start all over again.

And Christmas was just two days away.

“I’m going out,” John announced, swallowing the last of his tea. “”Some shopping to do.”

Sherlock interrupted his rant to frown at him. “What shopping?”

John just smiled. “Never you mind. Good luck with the foreskins.” He planted a kiss on Sherlock’s frown and went to get dressed.

He was in desperate need of an idea. A suggestion. A bloody sudden inspiration.

John had finished all of his Christmas shopping, with one notable exception.

And if that were not the perfect description of Sherlock Holmes, he did not know what was. _A notable exception._ But what would be the ideal gift for an elusive creature like that?

None of the obvious things, of course.

He had considered shirts, scarves, socks.

Also, the fancy shampoo and other expensive toiletries that filled their bathroom cabinet.

The imported chocolates that the man would eat when nothing else was allowed to interfere with the idiot’s brain work.

But none of those things suited. John wanted this gift to be special, to mark the change in their relationship. To make note of the fact that two desperately lonely men had at long last stumbled upon the right path, at the same time, and so were not walking alone any more.

What the bloody hell gift said _that?_

Nothing at Harrod’s. Or Fortnum and Mason. And there wasn’t any reason at all to even try Marks and Sparks.

The weak winter sunlight had already disappeared and the city was lighting up by the time John found himself wandering into Cecil Court, a short passageway that linked St Martins Lane and Charing Cross. Usually, that was why he would find himself here, just using it as a way to quickly get somewhere else. Although, he had been here once with Sherlock, on the case he’d titled [to considerable scorn] _Stamped To Death,_ which had involved stolen postage stamps. The thief had tried to sell his ill-gotten treasure to one of the small Victorian-facaded shops that lined Cecil Court.

Now, John stopped and looked in the window of an almost hidden little shop he’d never noticed before. There were shelves crammed with second-hand books and also a small area of what looked like antiques. Or junk. Still, desperation was a vicious motivator, so he pushed open the door, setting a tiny bell ringing.

The elderly lady sitting on a high stool behind the counter looked up from her book with a warm smile. “Good afternoon,” she said. “May I help you?”

Something about her reminded John of his Nana and he smiled back at her with equal warmth. “Oh, how I wish you could,” he said lightly. “I am trying to find a gift for the world’s most impossible man.”

She studied him for a moment, her eyes sharp behind the old-fashioned eyeglasses. then made a sweeping gesture around the small premises. “I think you might find something here, in that case.”

He only nodded amiably and began to browse. There were a lot of old books, but nothing really captured him. Nothing on poisons or gruesome murders or arcane science history. After a few minutes, he moved to a table that was piled with odds and ends. Old fountain pens. Several Royal Dalton teacups, slightly chipped. Non-ticking watches. A lady’s mirror decorated with probably fake pearls. Two old biscuit tins, one with a young Queen Elizabeth II painted on top and the other with an eternally young Diana.

John sighed as his fingers sifted through a pile of cuff links and tie pins. Sherlock hated ties and already owned several pairs of very nice cuff links. Then his eye was caught by something glittering under the tat and he paused. He poked through the pile and saw a ring sitting at the very bottom. Admittedly, he was no expert on jewellery, but the ring did not seem to belong with the rest of the mediocre pieces on the table. It was heavy, certainly looked and felt like real silver and the blue gem [sapphire?] glittered even more brightly after a quick polish on the front of his coat.

He had, of course, thought of one day giving Sherlock a ring, but it still seemed too soon for something like that. But as a Christmas gift it might be acceptable. Probably Sherlock wouldn’t even wear it. But nevertheless... 

He raised the ring to look more closely and saw that there was some engraving inside.

_1895  
To S  
My fixed point.  
-J_

The coincidence made him gasp aloud.

His reaction caught the attention of the woman at the counter. “Found something, did you?” she asked, sounding as if she already knew the answer.

He walked over to the counter, holding the ring in the palm of his hand. “This was on the table with some other jewellery. But it seems too good to belong in the ‘everything 5£’ pile.”

She took the ring from him and examined it. “Do you think this is the right gift for the world’s most impossible man?”

John smiled faintly. “The initials, you see. They match. A coincidence.”

“Not a great believer in coincidence myself,” the woman said. She held the ring out. “If it was in the 5£ pile, I am obligated to charge you that.”

John nodded towards her hand. “I would feel guilty paying so little for such a nice ring.”

“He will like it?”

He thought for a moment before answering. “I think he might.”

She reached under the counter and brought out a small box. “Then he must have it.”

John stopped arguing. He paid her the 5£ and then dropped a 50£ note into the RSPCA jar that was sitting on the counter. She smiled at him one more time and he left the shop, tucking the box safely into his pocket.

*

Unusually, it was John who could not sleep that night.

Sherlock had fallen asleep soon after they made love and was now snoring lightly. John pulled the blanket up over his bare chest, placed a feather-light kiss on his cheek and slipped from the bed.

He toyed with the notion of making himself a cuppa, but was afraid the activity might wake Sherlock, so instead he just poured a shot of whisky. Then he went to where his coat was hanging by the door and took out the small box, before walking to the window. Beneath the steadily increasing snowfall, Baker Street was as quiet as it ever was, with only an occasional car passing by. A solitary pedestrian, a homeless man by appearance, wandered from bin to bin looking for treasure.

John sipped the whisky and opened the box to look at the ring. He ran one fingertip around the engraving.

_1895  
To S  
My fixed point  
J_

He wanted to know the story behind the inscription, wanted to know who S and J were. Had been. More than a century ago.

He drained the whisky and went to hide the ring box at the bottom of the desk drawer. On his way back to bed, he passed the window and glanced out. The snow was covering the city now, turning the usually harsh urban landscape into something softer, almost magical.

He paused. For a moment, just a blink, John thought he saw two figures vanishing into the swirling snow. Two men, almost shadows wearing long coats and tall hats, walking away from 221 Baker Street, arm in arm. They were there and then they were gone.

John stood there a few moments longer before finally returning to the bedroom.He crawled back into bed and wrapped himself around Sherlock, holding on too tightly.

They were there and then, in a blink, they were gone.

**


End file.
